


Consider Yourself Lucky

by BuffyRowan



Category: Crossing Lines
Genre: Carl considering life, Gen, Strong Language, not in a happy place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuffyRowan/pseuds/BuffyRowan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl considers the changes in his life over the last few days, and their possible repercussions for the future</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consider Yourself Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Set almost immediately after the end of part 2 of the pilot. This is not a happy story, Carl is not in a happy place, and not only does he use strong language about it, there is some frank discussion about the effect of his hand on his life these days.

Carl turned away from Genovese's trailer, went back inside and sat back down at his microscopic little kitchen table. He rested his head on his left hand, cursing himself. Obviously either he'd been a baby-eating axe-murderer in a past life, or he'd somehow managed to mortally offend Fate in this one, because the cosmic bitch was being especially cruel these days. Not just with Shari offering a very personal thank you, either. There'd been Ann Marie's acceptance of him, and the way she asked for him as they put her in the ambulance.  


Hell, if he went along with Louis' foolishness, he'd be surrounded by eye candy. Ann Marie was sweet and pretty, and Eva was a lovely girl who would probably live up to all the hype about fiery Italians. Then there was the cute puppy of a German, Sebastian. All scruffy and ernest, nothing like the stereotype of a member of the Polizei. Or the sober Irishman, he was a deep well, Tommy was. A bare-knuckles fighter, full of anger, but he's controlled, avoids the serious kinds of egotistical pissing contests many men of his background might usually enter.  


And god help him, there was Louis himself to consider. Carl had been attracted to Louis the first time they'd met, a lifetime ago back in New York. But at that time, it wasn't safe to be interested in men if you were a member of the NYPD. And Louis was a newlywed, still head-over-heels for his wife back home in France. Time had weathered them both, years and pain and grief had etched lines into their faces and put pounds on their bodies. But those gray eyes, that French accent, coming from those lips . . .

"You should consider yourself lucky . . . that you were born with a light joint." It was nearly physically painful to remember Louis' joke, responding to his description of how crippled he was now. Because for all that Louis knew that he'd lost the use of his dominant hand, Louis had no idea exactly much Carl had lost with that bullet. It wasn't just writing, using a gun, or--hell--buttoning and unbuttoning his clothing without a lot of effort. It was a thousand little things Carl couldn't do any more, either because of the damage to his hand or the drugs he had to take to control the pain from it.

And yes, sex was one of those things. When the drugs allowed him to get an erection, of course. Seemed like just about every type of pain killer he'd tried had "sexual disfunction" as a side effect. Made sex with a partner pretty much impossible to even consider, no matter how willing the spirit was. That's before he started considering logistics. Can't put any weight on his right hand, that was just blindingly painful. If he'd taking Shari up on her offer, he'd have had to be careful, make sure she never landed on or hit his hand, either, because that was also aggressively painful. That's if the sight of the scarring didn't turn her off, or worse, put that pitying look in her eyes. Not that going solo for sex would help matters any. "Can't lift anything heavier than my joint," he'd told Louis. Hold enough to aim his piss, sure. But his fucking right hand didn't have any grip strength anymore, meaning he couldn't really use it to jack off anymore, either. And doing it one-handed sucked, anyway. Even when he was a kid, he hadn't been a one-handed kind of guy. The other hand was always doing something else, working his balls, a finger in his ass if he was feeling really athletic that night, something.

In other words, Carl would be surrounded daily by a group of very attractive people, one of whom he was infatuated with (it wasn't a crush, he wasn't a goddamned teenager for fucks sake.) He also was interested in, and had that interest reciprocated by, a lovely young woman who didn't know he was a cop. And for all practical purposes, he was a fucking eunuch. Add to that, in his infinite wisdom and capacity for masochism, he'd decided now was the perfect time to go cold turkey on the morphine patches that had been the only thing allowing him enough relief from the pain to function in anything approaching a normal capacity.

Yeah, he was fucked. With a barbed dildo. By that cruel bitch Fate, her PMSing sister Life, and their sadistic sister Love was probably standing by with lemon juice and salt for the aftercare portion of events.


End file.
